The first incident occurred at the beginning of October 1939, shortly after the occupation of Warsaw. With my husband safely in the Russian zone, I accepted that life would obviously be harder for us now, but I was confident that we could adapt. We knew that Jews would be persecuted - we had learned this from those expelled from Germany after Krystalnacht - but we could obviously not foresee, or even imagine, the horrors of Auschwitz and Treblinka. With the men out of the way, we women felt reasonably secure for the term of the Occupation.

The bombardment of Warsaw prior to the surrender had left many services, previously taken for granted, in tatters. Running water was unavailable and had to be fetched from wells, by the bucketful. Unfortunately, there were not many wells in the city and the nearest to Mila Street was situated in a Polish cemetery, about a kilometre away. With bucket in hand, I took myself off to this graveyard, to find a queue of women waiting their turn. Quietly joining the line, I immediately felt that I was the target of unfriendly glances. Soon, I heard, as no doubt I was meant to, the mutterings of those behind me, offended that they should find themselves behind a Jew on consecrated ground. There was nothing I could do. I would not move. Water was not a luxury. I waited my turn and then approached the well.

I did not see where they had come from. The bucket was torn from my hand and I was knocked down by a blow from behind, the first of many to land on my body. I was aware of a gang of men, or mainly youths, gathered around me, throwing blows and kicks, shouting their outrage at the effrontery of a Jewess who dared defile the hallowed ground of their cemetery. The only thought in my mind was that if I survive these blows, I would surely be crippled for life. But that was out of my hands; I was totally at their mercy.

I had almost resigned myself to a shortened life span when there was a loud retort. The shouting of the hooligans immediately subsided. The quiet was replaced by a fresh voice, a strong German voice. I looked up to see a soldier, a swastika prominently displayed on his arm and pistol in hand, berating all those around me.

"This why Poland lost the war so quickly? Can a Polack only find the courage to fight a lone defenseless woman, and in a mob, at that ? You rabble, you make me sick. Anyone within range in ten seconds will be dodging my bullets! Now get lost."

As the German approached, I saw the hooligans scatter. His manner was no longer arrogant.

"May I help you up, my good lady?" he asked.

I was certainly in need of his help and accepted it gratefully. What was harder to accept was the polite concern of one who should have been my enemy.

"Let us get some water now. It will not be safe for you to stay after I have gone. Do you have a bucket?"

"I did have," I managed to mumble through gritted teeth. "They took it."

"Then we will use this one," he smiled, picking up a good milking pail that had been abandoned by its owner. Going over to the well, he lowered the pail and raised it, full.

"Obviously you are in no condition to carry it. Where do you live?"

"Oh, kind sir. You have done enough for me already. I would not dream of taking you so far out of you way. Believe me, I can manage."

Refusing his help was not due to altruism but to a realisation that any woman seen to be favoured by the Occupiers would be branded a collaborator. I knew what the consequences would be. However, this Teutonic Sir Galahad was not easily deterred.

"If I leave you now, they will soon catch up to you and this time you may not be so lucky. I can feel their beady eyes on us even now. Come, let us go," his commanding voice not allowing me to refuse. "Which way?"

As we approached Mila Street, I tried again and this time he simply smiled.

"Well, you should be safe enough now," he said, "but let me suggest that you draw your water from a different well from now on."

Perhaps he was tired of walking. Perhaps he understood my dilemma. That, I will never know. He handed me the pail, clicked his heels and was gone.

A similar scene was replayed some days later during an allocation of bread. Again a long queue of waiting Poles, again I was attacked and again rescued by a German soldier. Escorting me to the counter, he pointed to a large white loaf, then for good measure another equally as big. Thanking him most profusely, I left for home with these two prizes clutched tightly. Without his help, the best I could have hoped for was one small rye bread. In this context, the end justified the few bruises that I had collected.

As I left, I heard him mutter, "What a nation of cretins. They aren't fit to lick the boots of these people."

I assumed that the reference to "cretins" was directed at the Poles, whilst we were "these people".

Soon after these incidents, I realised that my future could not be in Warsaw and I would have to leave. Saving my daughter was my first priority. Nina and I left Warsaw in November, 1939 hoping that my husband Shmuel would be able to join us eventually.

This led to the the third incident as we attempted to cross from the German Zone to the Russian one. Ten of us were travelling in a covered horse-drawn wagon, looking perhaps like something from a Western movie. To reach the river, which we hoped to cross by stealth with the assistance of smugglers, we first had to negotiate a German control point.

Our little group consisted of three mothers with children, three young men and a middle-aged driver. We were unmistakably Jewish and therefore apprehensive as we approached the German post that was manned by the SS rather than the usual Wehrmacht soldiers. This was bad news. They would certainly interrogate us, then, on a whim, either let us pass or turn us back. In this situation, we had no choice but to submit. Clutching our children, we huddled in the front part of the wagon, away from the luggage. In this way, we were less likely to be molested than if we were more easily accessible to the soldiers who were prodding with their bayonets, at everything in sight. Satisfied that any further damage to our belongings would be superfluous, they turned their attention to the human cargo. Levelling their rifles at the driver, they barked,

"Where do you think you're going?"

The German language and Yiddish are very similar when spoken. It has been suggested that Yiddish is a corrupt form of German. The major difference between the two is that Yiddish contains a generous smattering of Hebrew words. However, fluency in one generally indicates at least adequacy in the other. Our driver, obvious under immense strain, answered,

"We're going just across the river. We have family on the other side."

Unfortunately, in his nervousness, he substituted the Hebrew mishpocha (family) for the German word.

This seemed to incense the soldiers and we thought we were in for a beating, if not worse. The commander came out of the guardhouse to see what all the fuss was about.

"Just a group of Jews, Herr Oberst. We'll take care of them."

"Wait," he replied, and mounted the wagon next to the driver.

His eyes took in the ruined luggage, the terrified passengers and the cringing children. He turned to me.

"Are you a widow?" he asked. "Yes Sir," I replied, thinking how menacing the SS insignia was at such close range.

"Your husband died serving his country?" he continued.

"Yes Sir."

"These ladies also?" There was general murmur of agreement.

"And you are taking these poor orphans to live with family?"

It was starting to feel like a bizarre game. I sensed that his questions were deliberately leading so that we could not answer wrongly.

"Yes Sir."

"Your families live in the General Gouverment (German) side, correct?

You are not going to the other side with those godless Ivans? You wouldn't want to bring up your children as Communists, would you?"

"Certainly not, Sir. We ask only to live in peace under the benevolent German government."

"Well spoken. You may pass, ladies, and your driver with you. The young gentlemen will remain for the moment but will probably be free to go later. I wish you well." Jumping from the wagon, he motioned to the men to disembark, then waved us on. As we left, I heard him say to the other SS men:

"And good riddance. Why would we want such trash among us? And you made sure that there was nothing left worth confiscating. Let them sponge off the Russians."

Maybe he was expressing his true sentiments, but I suspect that even the SS did not immediately embrace the philosophy of persecuting women and children. The three men we left behind I never heard from again.

As the Occupation progressed, there were more and more converts to the barbaric Nazi brotherhood, perhaps including even the three individuals mentioned above. If the lessons of hatred and vilification were read often enough, perhaps even they could be capable of spending part of the war overseeing the queues at Auschwitz or Majdanek.